A New Education
by Mlle Passpartout
Summary: Belle French, schooled in the English Countryside, receives her first position as a governess for a wealthy family. She leaves behind the familiarity and comfort of her education for a paid position in London.
1. The Departure

**A/N: ** Hello everyone! I'm REALLY excited about this story, it came from some tumblr inspiration and a healthy dose of _Jane Eyre_. I hope you all enjoy it and keep an eye out for favorite characters making appearances! It's really an all encompassing AU. I don't own the characters from OUaT, just in case ;) haha. Enjoy!

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Change was always a bittersweet occasion. Belle was sad to leave the past behind, but excited, all the same, to be going on to greater things: her first position.

She was all nervousness and shivers, being hired in London. Her youth, spent at Storybrooke School for Girls had prepared her for this. The name, far more picturesque than the reality of it, had raised her on a strict curriculum of literature, religion, and accessory studies. It was not a frivolous education, and secluded somewhat, in the countryside, they only got a handful of girls each year.

Her tenth year in the world, the year she arrived at Storybrooke, was nothing short of a tragedy. Both of her parents had passed away, typhoid, she had heard the doctors whisper, and with no extended family to care for her, she was just lucky to have of a well-enough-to-do family that her admittance to a reputable school was taken care of. The rest, unfortunately, rested squarely on Belle's young shoulders.

It seemed that whenever someone, an adult, mostly, came to Storybrooke, they stayed in that place until they were too old to continue the position. Belle had wondered, on more than one occasion, whether or not their sewing instructor had passed away while taking a nap in the quiet sewing room. Her suspicions were never correct, however.

There was perhaps one respite the otherwise gloomy place offered: the gardens. Belle had spent much time there, perfecting her drawing amongst the English roses, and eventually taking the little ones out to do their lessons if the weather proved friendly enough. Belle was, Madame Mother joked, the only reason they kept up with the gardens.

As for the rest of her education, Belle's painting and embroidery were fine, but her singing and playing were finer. Madame Mother, as she liked to be called, the Head Mistress of the establishment, and Reverend Whale were quite positive they had never heard a harp or pianoforte sound more beautiful.

With all of these recommending traits, they had still been surprised when Belle was offered a summons from London. She was northern, having lived almost in the wilds of Scotland (though, Madame Mother would sigh, blessedly south of the wall), but that was generally not what most London families looked for. Thankfully though, Belle had a litany of skills and a way with young children.

As the years went on, her education rooted itself down and she was surprisingly kind to the younger girls who came into the fold. Se was a guide and friend, as well as teacher. It became obvious that although Belle would never rise to the status of society lady, she could be a governess.

Madame Mother may not have been the most kind, but she was industrious, and recommended the girl to families she knew were in need. She had anticipated, perhaps, she'd be placed in the North, or even to a well to-do in Liverpool, but a London summons was an ambitious accomplishment. Madame Mother could not take enough credit for it.

Her honey sweet, but empty smile, with empty eyes was one of the last Belle placed a cheek kiss upon. They had set Belle up with her modest collection of trifles from over the years, and a carriage. She kissed heads, gave hugs, and held back her tears. She was going onto another part of life.

She lingered with one of the youngest girls, crouching down to smooth Grace's honey brown locks away from her face. "It will be alright, Grace," she smiled, wiping her smooth cheek with her thumb, just a few tears leaking from her big, brown eyes. "Miss Ashley will make sure you are taken care of." The little girl nodded and the slightly older blonde put her hands on her shoulders. "I will be sure to write," she soothed, pressing her lips to her forehead before Grace threw her arms around her neck one last time.

Madame Mother put her hand on Belle's shoulder and the young woman looked up. "Miss French," her voice dripped with sweetness that Belle had always questioned, "it is time to go."

"Just a moment," Belle looked over her shoulder, "Please." The carriage driver sighed impatiently from the top of the rig, tugging the last of the holds tight on her luggage, and Madame Mother breathed slowly out of her nose. Belle only had a few moments.

Belle gave Grace one last squeeze before she loved to stand. The little girl's fists wrapped around the fabric of her bodice and Belle's heart ached as she softly removed them. "Do you promise to write?" Grace asked anxiously, expectantly, and Belle smiled tenderly, brushing one more tear from her cheek. Grace's eyes swam with tears.

"I promise." Madame Mother tapped her shoulder again and Belle had to tear herself away from the little girl who looked so desperate to hold on. She couldn't though, and neither could Belle.

As they walked toward the carriage, Madame Mother put her hand on Belle's back. "You will do well, Miss French," Belle nodded slowly, a hesitant smile playing on her lips as she looked at the Head Mistress, wondering what her aim was at. Her hand was on her back, pushing her forward, and she let out a deep breath. "Remember everything we have taught you."

"I will, Ma'am," she nodded obediently, unsure of what to say, of what she was supposed to say to this woman. She had, of course, given Belle her education, been in charge of upbringing season by season, and gave her opportunity to grow, which she supposed made it appropriate to say only one thing, "Thank you."

She was led to the carriage, and they stopped for a moment Madame Mother turned her, gripping her upper arms for a moment, looking at Belle in the way she imagined a livestock trader might look at a prize winning heifer. There was pride there, but Belle could not be sure if it was for her – or herself. She smiled, regardless and Madame Mother leaned up to kiss her cheek. "You're welcome, Miss French. We wish all the best to you."

Belle returned the brief embrace and then looked to the carriage. It was really happening. The door was held open by the Reverend, and Belle smiled at him, though closed lipped. Reverend Whale always disturbed her in the strangest way, but she owed him a small smile and a nod. He extended his hand to help her up. Belle could not deny it and her gloved hand found his, stepping into the carriage that was nicer than anything she had ever ridden in before. "Goodbye!" she called from the window, waving her hand.

A handful of the girls, Grace included, were openly sobbing. A few of the others were surely upset, but the oldest girls all realized this was what happened. You could not stay at Storybrooke forever. You would not want to, no matter how much you loved the girls you were with. They would move on – and Belle did not wish to watch the lives of others slip by her in the same place. She was getting the adventure she had always been fond of reading about, even if it was something she had prepared for.

"Goodbye, dear!" Madame Mother called, and Reverend Whale tapped the back of the carriage twice. The driver snapped the whips and the carriage lurched forward. Belle was actually on her way. She was leaving Storybrooke and going to London.

She watched out the window as the carriage rattled down the uneven, dirt road from the school. She waved until her shoulders hurt, and kept going, even after even Reverend Whale looked like an ant on the horizon. The manor house still loomed in the midst of the surrounding fields. It felt strangely right that on the day she left the sun was shining and the normally cloudy sky was clear.

When it wasn't possible to see anyone anymore, Belle turned in her seat and faced forward, hands twisting nervously in her lap. She hoped Ashley was taking care of Grace. Part of her knew, deep down, that after a couple of hours, the workings of Storybrooke would continue as they had before she left, before she arrived, as they seemingly always had. Something about that gave Belle a bit of peace, and she settled in her seat.

She would not be in London for two days time. It would do her well to get comfortable, and perhaps brush up on her French. She reached across the seat to open a box, packed with her books, tugging the grammar text out.

It was with great effort that instead of staring out of the window, daydreaming about city streets instead of rolling hills, the likes of which she had never seen – she had almost never dared even imagine - that she was plunging head first into her French grammar. She was a disciplined girl though, and only briefly, during past participle did she lift her eyes and stare at the sun setting over the farmland that would soon become a distant memory.


	2. The Arrival

**A/N: ** Thanks for all of the follows, guys! I really appreciate it! This chapter gets more of the action moving, and introduces some other faces we all might recognize. Hope you enjoy!

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It was with great effort that instead of staring out of the window, daydreaming about city streets instead of rolling hills, the likes of which she had never seen – she had almost never dared even imagine - that she was plunging head first into her French grammar. She was a disciplined girl though, and only briefly, during past participle did she lift her eyes and stare at the sun setting over the farmland that would soon become a distant memory.

The carriage travelled straight through. Belle slept sparingly. The uneven roads were bumpy, and the carriage shook as it rolled along. Her head would hit against the walls, and then there were the sounds of the hooves hitting ground, rattling hitches bounced along with the rhythm of the animals pulling – it was an atmosphere wholly unsuited to sleep. She was surprised, as they came and went from stables, switching out horses, and then drivers, the hitches, that those were the most peaceful times, where she could get a few moments of sleep.

She was very uncomfortable, but when she asked, the driver, a Mr. Clark, he said something about her employer and scheduling. Belle did not press further, letting Mr. Clark take control of the horses and the carriage, once again, lurched forward. She gripped her stomach, wishing terribly that she could loosen her corset for the long ride, feeling ill with travel, and closed her eyes again, hoping this stretch of travel might be more kind to her.

They were in the last legs of the journey; she knew that just by the change of landscape. The sparseness of the country was replaced by ever closer homes, farms became less prominent, and the land that stretched for days seemed to come to an end. Belle, despite her nausea and exhaustion, stared at the window.

It was only with the greatest restraint that she did not press her hands and nose against the window. She did, however, drink in every sight to behold. Her simple, grey gown paled in comparison to the expressions of the women she saw in the streets, rich mahogany browns and navy blues, dresses she had only seen sketched in print magazines. Now they were real, and her breath caught in her throat.

She had never seen so many people, men and women milling the streets, and those of all classes! In the country, they had very little exposure to many people, except on Sundays, where those in the neighboring area and the girls of the school would listen to the Reverend. Belle suddenly felt sheepish, and simple, but it did not stop her from looking.

There was an anticipation in her chest, even with the changing streets, from uneven dirt to cobbles – imagine! She had never walked on cobbles outside of a garden path, and here they were in droves. There were also the smells – coal and smoke, prominently, then there was the smell from the river, and the factories, and markets – Belle was dizzy with sensation.

As much as she had read about this place, there was nothing like experiencing it, even from behind the glass pane window of a carriage. She thought of how the other girls would react, how dazed and elated they might be, and knew she would have to write at the earliest convenience. Everything was so… fantastical.

She could not imagine, even with the muddy sidewalks and questionable smells it could get better. Belle would have liked to rush out of the carriage and look at the wares on the street, she would have liked to talk to the people, see what they had to say, even if the crowed in a dialect she found hard to understand. She would get used to it, she thought, if that was what she was to know.

The overcrowded, dank streets started to change though. Belle did not know a city could be so diverse. One moment they were in milling, bustling streets with all walks of life going about, and the next they were in front of imposing buildings, carriages lining the streets and gentlemen abound in suits that would not have passed in the streets before. Had the setting changed all that much?

Belle was enraptured. She had thought the intial part of the journey, riding away from Storybrooke had been exciting – but this, this was something altogether different. She was amazed. The buildings looked Roman in some places, French in others, then thoroughly English. There was a melding of amazing differences that she saw in etchings, but… they never did it justice. And those were only the buildings…

The world seemed to shift again, somewhere the seamless change had occurred, and they were on the edge of a park, black fences lining the walk, separating the street from the lush, green grass. Belle scrambled across the carriage, unable to resist touching the glass as she looked out into the park, seeing at least four different types of flower in one glance, and a pond. There were promenading women and children about – it was idyllic.

She had no idea where she was, and yet, she could not imagine being anywhere else. She sat down on the plush seat, trying to compose herself and mute her sincerest excitements. There would be so much to see, if she had the chance to see it. She hoped her charges would be eager and willing to go for walks in the park, and more than that, her employer willing to let them.

She wondered what the Whites would be like, what the little girl might be like, what the lady of the house would be like – how she would treat her. There were anxieties, naturally, arose. It was, as the carriage started to slow, at this point that Belle realized she was truly nervous. She felt a sort of fear of her new life, one that the adrenaline had hidden, and the long ride had sedated until the carriage stopped.

Belle looked out of the window on the side of the street the door was closet to. The white house stood stark against the grey, foggy sky and loomed ominously. Windows graced every part of the front of the house, grey shutters on the sides, wrought iron adding decorative touches that made Belle gasp. It was a beautiful place, with two tall chimneys and three four floors. Madame Mother had made quite the connection in the White family.

Maybe, once, Storybrooke had been as beautiful, but it was an aging country manor, fitted for dozens of girls, instead of a family, and converted to both home and school. This was a home, and inside, there was a family – and she would be in charge of the education of its children. Yes, this was wondrous indeed, and Mr. Clark got down from the seat and opened the door for her, helping her out.

The disheveled and tired young woman stepped onto solid ground and closed her eyes for a moment. It was almost too much. She swayed slightly, and then a hand found its way to her elbow. "Are you alright, Miss?" Belle opened her eyes and tried to avoid blushing. The young woman who was at present at her side was in a black and white uniform, but had the most striking green eyes she had ever seen. Her slight, Irish intonation was surprising at first, but she sounded kind, at the very least.

Not wanting to be a bother, Belle adjusted herself quickly, "Very well, thank you," she smiled apologetically, not wanting to be waited upon. The position of a governess was an awkward one, at best, but it was good to become friendly with the domestics, she had been taught, outside of the Master and Mistress, they ran the home. "It was a long journey," she added, wanting to avoid sounding like she was ungrateful or unpleasant.

"I can imagine," the young woman said with empathy, nodding the whole while. "You must be Miss French, Mrs. White said to expect you," she chirped, ready to lead her in while what appeared to be a portly, bald valet and another, somewhat taller, less gruff looking man helped with her sparse belongings. "Come now, Grum and Bosse can handle your things. You must be exhausted."

Belle laughed lightly at the girl's enthusiasm. "Just a bit, yes, but – forgive my manners, you seem to know my name, and well, I do not know yours," she eased, hoping that the girl with the dark hair would introduce herself. She could use an ally in a new place, and this girl looked roughly her own age.

The girl gasped and smiled, reaching up to adjust her mop cap, tucking some dark strands back underneath the brim, "Oh! Miss French, forgive me," she smiled warmly, "I forget my own manners sometimes! My name is Eliza Lucas," she was considerably taller than Belle, and stood even taller at her introduction, "I housekeep." She was proud of her job, at least from the sound of it, "my Gran is the cook."

Belle made a note, the Lucas' were the two women, and the valets were Grum and Bosse – though she did not know one from the other yet. She would learn them all, in turn, but it as nice to order them in her head. "It is a pleasure then, Miss Lucas," she smiled as she was lead around the side of the house, probably to the kitchen entrance. Belle felt almost disappointed, wanting to see the interior of such a beautiful home. She was sure Mrs. White, with such a fine exterior canvas, would have the inside perfect.

They were going to the kitchen first though, and Belle entered with the confident Miss Lucas. There was a pot simmering in the hearth, and bowls with raising dough in them. The older Lucas, Belle could only guess, was up to her elbows in flour, her hair askew with patches of white over her cheeks and even in her hair. "Gran," Miss Lucas lilted, garnering the attention of the older woman.

The older woman's aged face turned sharply, her hands stopped kneading the dough and she looked over. "Liza!" she snapped, eyebrows furrowed; at least until she looked up and saw that she and Miss Lucas were not alone. Belle blushed, hoping it was not an intrusion, and the husky woman softened her scowl, brushing her hands on her dingy apron. "So sorry, Miss French," seemed she was known already. Her accent was heavier than her granddaughter's. "Sit, sit," she motioned to the preparation table, currently empty, save for the bowls. "You can call me Gran, dearest. You must be famished. Shall I prepare something for you?"

Belle blushed at the forward hospitality, so glad that she was quite as harsh as she looked in the first moment they were in the kitchen. "It's quite alright," she quirked an anxious smile, smoothing the folds of her dress, "I wouldn't want to impose," Belle added demurely.

"Pish posh!" the woman responded, certainly not one for softness. It surprised her, really, and Belle's eyes widened. "I'll fix you something," she looked her over and nodded, clucking like a mother hen. "Liza, you take Miss French straight to her room, get the dear settled, and then come back here."

Belle was glad that she would be able to go upstairs and get settled. She was tired, and felt dirty and weak. It would be nice to clean up and change into another dress. Letting out a deep breath, Belle followed Eliza up the narrow stairwell, moving her skirts out of the way and taking a deep breath. "You'll be on the third floor, Miss French," Liza broke in, "with the nursery."

That seemed typical, and Belle followed her, higher and higher. They used the servant steps, though Belle would not typically take these. It was strange, of course, to think about her place. She wasn't quite the same as a domestic, but she did not have a place in the household except with the children. Perhaps, in some ways, she was like their oldest sister, but one charged with their education. "Thank you, Miss Lucas," Belle smiled as they walked into the hallway of the nursery level.

It was unexpectedly quiet. Belle looked to Eliza and the young woman smiled, walking her past the open doors. "Mrs. and Miss White must be out," she explained, and Belle nodded, though slightly disappointed. She would have liked to meet them. Eliza pushed open the door to Belle's room, a plain sort, but it suited her. Her things were already placed inside and there was a wardrobe with a small vanity and basin set. It was a far more comfortable arrangement than sharing with four other girls at Storybrooke.

As they walked in, Belle smiled, "This is lovely," she nodded. Apparently, that was something that meant she was being dismissed and Eliza smiled before she dipped into a half courtesy. "Wait!" Belle said almost too forcefully, blushing as Eliza stopped short.

"Yes, Miss French?" she smiled eagerly, almost bouncing with enthusiasm. Belle had a sneaking suspicion Miss Lucas would be a good companion, and a reasonable ally to deal with in the house. She swayed in her spot by the door for a moment before Belle opened her mouth.

"I was wondering," she retreated into a sort of shyness, unsure of how to actually say it. "What of Mr. White?" Belle asked plainly, though innocently enough.

Eliza glanced over her shoulder, eyes wide, and Belle instantly felt like she had done something wrong. "Oh, Miss French," Eliza shook her head, glancing over her shoulder, as though to check for sounds. Belle leaned forward, and Eliza dropped her voice down to a whisper, "General White passed away six months ago."


	3. The Family

**A/N: **Hope you guys are enjoying! Thank you for all of the follows and favorites! I really appreciate it!

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The news Eliza left her with had been shocking. Madame Mother had not mentioned that to her, and the letter she received had nothing to suggest it either. She poured the pitcher of water into he basin and washed her face, staring in the small, round mirror. It dripped off her nose and down her cheeks. Belle let out a deep breath, glad to have that moment to collect her and process.

It felt much better to get some of the dirt off her face. She grabbed the soft cloth from the side of the basin and dipped it in the water, bringing it up to scrub. It felt wonderful, and Belle sighed into the strip of fabric.

Eliza brought her a small helping of soup, probably whatever was on the stove when she had walked in, and Belle smiled at her, over the basin. The soup was left on the night stand, and Belle picked at it – although she was far too nervous to eat. She had yet to meet the family.

She considered the situation: there was one child in the house, a girl, and the lady of the house. The master, General White had passed away- four years ago. Belle thought that might have been information she was privy to, before accepting the position, but apparently she was not so lucky.

The best she could do, at this point, was prepare to meet the small family. She removed her plain, travelling gown and sighed with relief as she changed her entire ensemble. It felt delightful to be in something clean and crisp, pulled fresh from her trunk. She would finish getting acclimated to the room later in the evening, after she took the children for their supper and retreated until her duties the next day.

As she finished buttoning the front of her equally plain day dress, Belle was pleased with the grey-blue fabric and high collar, only a tiny brooch that had been left by her mother sitting at the base of her throat. She fixed her hair, plaited neatly and tucked up with pins, and she felt inclined to be comfortable with her appearance.

When she sat on her bed, books, papers, and personal trinkets at the tips of her fingertips, Belle supposed she could start her first letter. It would be to Grace, she had decided almost the instant she left, but a knock at the door sent her eyes flying upward from her package of papers. "Miss French?" Eliza's voice was distinct and Belle jumped from her bed.

Belle rushed forward, opening the door. "Yes, Eliza?" she was almost breathless, not expecting the sudden summons, and leaned against the frame, wide eyed and concerned.

"Mrs. and Miss White have returned." Eliza sounded much more resigned than she had earlier, and sedate. What a curious young woman. Belle's enthusiasm did not temper, however, and she smiled, standing up straight and smoothed her bodice again, just for good measure. "They're in the parlor, Miss."

Belle smiled, perhaps the widest she had since she arrived, feeling refreshed and clean, and nodded. "If you could show me the way, Miss Lucas?" she did not really need to intone it as a request, but she did, regardless. Eliza nodded, turning on her heel and walked quickly.

It was strange, the turn in her attitude, but Belle presumed something had occurred with her grandmother in the kitchen. This time, they did not use the staff stairwell. Belle was led down the stairs that the family would use, with rich, wooden railings, polished to the nines. She was sure Eliza and any other staff took beautiful care of such a place, and Mrs. White must have prided herself on her home.

Mrs. White touch was surprising. Her taste was exquisite, but darker than Belle might have expected. Dark colors were not frowned upon, but from Belle's education, they were not typical in home decorating. Belle let out a deep breath as her shoes touched the last step and Eliza glanced at her over her shoulder – unsmiling, anxiety in her eyes and Belle's look questioned. Eliza did not answer.

She just continued to lead. The archway into the parlor was the final barrier, and Eliza stood to the side so Belle could enter first. She nodded to her as she past and Belle felt overwhelmed. The room was stark, so formal – and dark. The colors were muted, and the drapes drawn, most assuredly to keep the daylight sun from fading the carpets and chairs, but still…

The furniture was arranged around a hearth that had a mantle clock, above the mantle clock was a family portrait. Belle did not linger – she couldn't, it felt invasive, for some reason… and she turned her eyes to the corner, there was a pianoforte – and a harp, both were beautiful, from what she could see, and there was a rich, Persian rug. It was more luxurious than anything she had ever seen. Everything in this place was beautiful.

Even more beautiful, she realized, was the girl standing in the center of the room. She was just like a China doll. How she reminded her of Grace, in that moment, with wide eyes and a sweet face. But this child looked like an angel, all dressed in white – innocent mourning, with cascading black curls contrasting so beautifully with her light skin, rosy patches on her cheeks and full, pink lips. This girl would grow to be a beauty, and she could not have been more than ten years old. Belle smiled at her, and the child shifted, just slightly.

"Miss French." Belle blinked, looking up from her charge to the speaker. She had a velvet voice, and when she stepped from the shadows, Belle was almost taken aback. The woman did not appear old enough to have a daughter this age. She was beautiful though, absolutely breathtaking, and Belle felt immediately inferior. Even her mourning wear, black and heavy, appeared elegant as she moved outward, her onyx brooch glimmering at the base of her throat. "Welcome to our home."

She wondered, idly, how Mrs. White and the General had met, and the circumstances of their marriage. She was sure, through her association, she would find out. But, it was not time to question the mourning woman (it never would be, how inappropriate), but the thoughts were even more misplaced. Belle was in the woman's employ, and this was their first meeting. She should like kind and confident, willing to please.

Belle dropped into a courtesy that was as graceful as she could manage and the woman's face did not change. "Thank you, Madame, for this opportunity." There were few rules of engagement, one of which being forever thankful, the other, only responding to what was said. Belle had both in her employ.

"You came very highly recommended," she addressed her plainly, "and I trust Madame." There was something sharp there, something Belle could not understand, but she nodded, despite herself. Mrs. White was her employer now, and Belle shouldn't question her. "I hope you were taken care of, while Mary Margaret and I were out." She smiles, just slightly, without teeth, and her dark eyes – they had that same look Madame Mother had. Belle did not want to see those eyes alight with anything, particularly anger.

She nodded, quietly, and clasped her hands in front of her, always wanting to remain quiet, answering to the mistress of the house. "Very much so, you have a very capable staff, Madame." Compliments, upon first arriving, were always well liked, Madame Mother had taught her, and the more positive things she could say, she would.

Mrs. White nodded, her smile spreading wider. "I'm glad." She crossed the room and put her hands on the young girl, identified as Mary Margaret. "Miss French, let me introduce to Mary Margaret, your charge."

The little girl, who had previously been stoic and still, dipped mechanically and gave her a small smile, almost shyly. Belle was immediately smitten with the girl, she was adorable. "It is a pleasure to meet you, Miss French," her voice was musical, and Belle was delighted – she would be a wonder to teach singing.

"The pleasure is mine, I assure you," she smiled, for the first time as openly as she would have with her friends back at Storybrooke. Mary Margaret seemed to brighten, and Mrs. White released her hold on the child.

She straightened her sleeves, looking down at Belle. It seemed all of the grown women in this house were destined to tower over her. She kept her chin tilted downward though, even if she had to look up at Mrs. White, "You may take Mary Margaret upstairs, Miss French. You will assume teaching her lessons tomorrow morning."

"Of course, Madame," she affirmed and Mary Margaret joined her side. The little girl smiled up at her, before taking her hand. She did not even know her, and yet, she clasped on, full of trust, and Belle felt immediate warmth from the child. Mrs. White whisked past them, beating a chilly retreat, not even bothering a goodbye and Belle could not help but follow her with confusion. Who did not bid their child good evening, or at the least say something?

Mary Margaret, however, started forward, her curls bouncing, white ribbons creating stark contrast. What a pretty little doll, that was for certain. "Miss Mary Margaret," Belle smiled as they mounted the stairs, the little girl travelling just in front of her, "how was your day out?"

Mary paused, then shrugged. "Well enough." She climbed up a few more stairs before turning to look at her governess. Belle looked at her expectantly, though patient, and Mary Margaret's full cheeks deflated as she expelled a deep breath. "We went to see Mr. Mida and his daughter, Abigail." She made a face, Belle tried not to smile. "We had tea, and finger sandwiches. The finger sandwiches were at least good."

The child was talkative, which Belle appreciated. Spirited children were the most interesting, and she would have to tell Grace how alike she and Mary Margaret were. She wondered how this child, who seemed so personable, was the child of Mrs. White, who appeared she had no interest in her – and had insides made of icicles. "I'm glad to hear it. Tea without proper finger sandwiches can be dreadful." Mary giggled, a sweet sound, and they rounded the landing, moving upward still.

"It is!" she agreed emphatically, "I am so glad you agree." Her gate was bouncy and vivacious, and Belle did her best to keep up, her skirts were not quite suited to climbing so quickly, unlike the raised hem of the little girl's day dress. As Mary Margaret reached the third floor first, she smiled. "Have you seen my room? I don't suppose you have; I would love to show you!"

Belle nodded her consent and reached the top, filing behind her as she led to one of the closed doors. "Do come in," she smiled wide and Belle giggled a polite thank you as she walked into the room. It was beautifully decorated, pink and plush, touches of white and accents of luxury everywhere. This was the sort of room Belle could have dreamed about as a child, but had never experienced.

The room had once been the all-encompassing nursery, but now a child's bed replaced the cradle and the vestiges of infancy were gone, giving way to porcelain faced dolls that looked like their owner, stuffed bears, a tea set and dainty white table and chair set, Belle supposed that was where they would do some of her lessons, the rest in the sitting room with the instruments, and couches fit for sewing. There was a chalk board, as well, and a child sized pointer. "Do you like it?" the young woman asked, gleaming eyes and excitement.

Belle grinned. This girl was so kind hearted, eager to please, Belle found herself immediately taken with her. "It is a room fit for a princess, Miss Mary Margaret," she nodded approvingly, and that made the little girl's smile burst. The tour did not stop at the sudden appraisal, and suddenly Belle was dragged around the room to meet every doll and animal, introduced to all of Mary Margaret's things, and she was very hopeful that her position her would be a lasting one.


	4. The Guest

**A/N: **Again, thanks everyone for the follows and favorites! Here's where Mr. Gold suddenly appears, and I really hope you like it! Enjoy, and there will be more soon!

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Belle woke up much earlier than her charge, and presumably her charge's mother. She heard Eliza fussing over something in the hallway; she poked out, apologetically asking for a fresh pitcher of water, and the tasks of the day began. Belle wanted to match the pristine appearance of the family she was now in the service of, and she did, modest and appropriate before it was time to wake Mary Margaret and begin the day.

Morning lessons went well, though Belle found out that Mary Margaret, as pleasant as she was in the afternoon, was not much for the morning, and she struggled through breakfast and part of her sewing. The poor primer was never going to be in neat stitches, but that was what practice patterns were for. When she finally started to wake, it was much easier to coax her into her reading for the day.

The little girl had a pleasant cadence when she read; Belle thought that was promising, even if her pronunciation needed work. They only briefly did a little arithmetic before Mary Margaret became restless. She glanced out of the windows, less interested in what she was scribbling down on her board and more in what was going on with passersby, making it nigh impossible to get her to pay any attention at all. They had not seen Mrs. White at all, Eliza, in passing, murmured something about social calls, and Belle decided it was just about time that they get out of the house and go to that park.

"Come now, Mary Margaret," she chirped as she stood, smoothing out her skirts. "I believe it is time we go to the park." The girl didn't stir immediately, probably shocked, and slowly turned her face to her governess, who smiled impishly at her charge. "Unless you don't want to…" she trailed off, moving herself as though she would sit again, and Mary jumped from her seat, expression of shock and then excitement passing over her face.

She raced to grab her bonnet and Belle smiled, "Be ready in five minutes, Miss Mary," she looked over her shoulder as she neared the door, making sure she was actually getting her things and Belle went to her own room to make herself presentable for being out of doors. She was clad simply, in a grey gown, as most of her things were grey or black, and buttoned up to her neck. She didn't keep anything else, it was improper, and she pinned her chestnut hair again, then went for her gloves, just a little tighter, trying to give Mary enough time to get ready.

Stepping out of her room, she was surprised to see Mary already waiting at the top of the steps, the bow from her bonnet tied quite carelessly, and her gloved hands holding tight to the handle of her parasol. Well, at least she knew what she had to bring. "Can we go, please, Miss French?" she practically squeaked.

Belle dropped to her knees, almost gracefully (just a slight stumble) in front of the little girl and undid the sloppy bow. "In a moment," she tickled Mary's nose with the ribbon and the little girl giggled. "Hold still," she instructed, but gently, and her nimble fingers went about the task carefully, making sure the bow was starched and full, not the sad thing the little fingers had attempted before. "Now," she wrinkled her nose as she stood, "we can go."

Mary Margaret all but squealed, darting down the stairwell, and Belle followed, patient as ever, shaking her head at her charge. The idea of going outside had certainly reinvigorated the child who had just been falling asleep on top of her simple arithmetic. Now she was all smiles and energy, a budding white rose, to be certain. "Be careful," Belle chided, though gently, "You don't wish to fall, do you?"

That made the little girl's feet slow, and she tempered herself. She was already very much in love with the child. She was glad she was only nine; she would need Belle for quite some time. It might have been selfish, but for a girl who had no one in the world, being needed so completely was not something she ever had. At least, the child was pleasant, and Eliza was pleasant, Gran was a good cook, so far – the valets, well, they had not interacted with her much at all yet, but she was sure they must have been quite fine as well. Mrs. White, she could probably avoid without feeling too terribly, but Belle hoped se would improve upon association...

While all of these thoughts filled her head, Mary had no problem in racing to the foyer. Belle quickened her pace after her, stopping as one of the men, presumably the butler blocked Mary Margaret. Belle immediately blushed, "Pardon," she moved close to Mary, "We were just going for a walk. Would you be able to relay that information to Mrs. White, should she come back before we return?"

The slightly grizzled, peppered grey man made a face. "Yes, Miss," he acquiesced. Mary smiled at him, and this seemed to temporarily soften his face before he reached for the polished, brass handle. Belle scuttled Mary away from the door so it could swing open and both jumped back as it id. The entryway was not empty. In fact, a rap on the door was halted by its moving and everything in the foyer suddenly stilled.

Mary Margaret was the first to say anything, "Uncle Gold!" she exclaimed. Belle wished she could see her face, whether that was excited or frightened, Belle could not tell, and she tried not to look shocked, though it was difficult, with her mouth hanging open indecorously.

The man was not exactly tall, though taller than Belle, and slight. He was dressed impeccably though. Dark suit, tailored to perfection, a gold chain hanging off of his waistcoat, disappearing behind his jacket. There were two things that stood out. He had hair that was not cut in the typical fashion, long, and peeks of grey around his temples. Then, there was the cane –decorative, she could not say functional yet, with a gold handle and what might have been pearl inlay, but Belle did not want to stare.

The stillness was broken as Mr. Gold removed his hand from midair and brought it to his side. He moved with purpose and the way he turned his head, looking down, she didn't know why, but she had the impulse to grab Mary Margaret and drag her straight back up the stairs. "Miss Mary Margaret," he half-smiled, almost smirked, but not quite. It was a peculiar look, but the tension left Belle's hands. His eyes flicked upward, left without a greeting, and looking perhaps confused. Belle got the distinct feeling it was not something he felt often.

Mary Margaret was a perfect little hostess and disentangled herself from Belle's grip. "Uncle Gold," she smiled brightly, unafraid. "I would like to introduce you to Miss French, she is my governess." She then turned her innocent brown eyes to Belle, "Miss French, may I introduce Uncle Gold, though I think you should probably call him Mr. Gold."

Belle nodded at her, thinking her advice very wise, and dipped in what felt like the fifteenth curtsey since she had arrived. The man nodded, only a slight acknowledgment of her existence, though she dared not speak first. He lifted his chin, "Good day, Miss French," and immediately turned his head, no time for Belle to respond. "Bosse," the butler, Belle cataloged for her own knowledge, was Bosse, "is Mrs. White in?"

Mary Margaret, in the most unladylike way, blew a long breath out of her nose, clearly perturbed, and Belle squeezed her shoulder. Bosse did not even glance down at the girl and shook his head. "Mrs. White will return shortly. Shall I inform her you stopped by?"

Mr. Gold drummed his fingers on the top of his cane and pursed his lips for a moment. "I think will wait," he nodded resolutely, it did not appear he would be taking no for an answer. Bosse looked unhappy, but his mulled jaw was not going to make a move to say anything. "Tea would be excellent as well," he smirked and pushed forward through the door.

Bosse was dismissed with the command and it left the foyer eerily empty, save for the two women and the stranger, who seemed to want to sit and wait for Mrs. White, for no reason Belle could possibly know. The forwardness of the guest shocked Belle, and they moved to the side. "Uncle?" Mary Margaret speaks up, definitely out of turn, earning her another squeeze from her governess, but she does not seem to even care.

He stops, mid-stunted step, apparently the cane was not only a show piece, but functional as well. She wouldn't have guessed, based on how ornate it was, but perhaps she was just being simple. "Yes, Miss White?"

She tilted her head up, putting her hands behind her back now. That was a sign – the girl was looking for something, and she rocked on her toes – Belle might have clamped her hand over her mouth, had she realized what she was going to say. "Did you bring me my present? You know the one from India?"

India? She looked at the man again, and she supposed that maybe she could see coloring on his face that would suggest he might have been abroad. The ring he wore, that she just noticed, she supposed, could also have oriental roots, but… she never would have guessed. How fascinating! She tried not to look as interested as she felt she was.

A short, bark of a laugh escaped the guest and Belle squeezed Mary's shoulder as tight as she could. Her face must have betrayed her because the guest smirked so easily, raising his eyebrows at her – it must have been, because his gaze immediately trained downward at her charge, "Shrewd, just like your father." His voice, as Belle listened closer, was not like Mrs. White's or Bosse's, it was closer to her distant memories of childhood, northern, and she let out a deep breath, glad he did not sound angry, though still mortified at Mary Margaret's manners.

"You promised," Belle could hear the pout in her voice, and she leaned closer, dropping her voice to a whisper, "I kept your secret."

Well, that perked Belle's ears right up. Mr. Gold, however, shook his head and straightened up. "Now, now," he smirked, "I can't be sure of that yet, can I?" She stilled, tilting her head to the side. "Later." That was final, if Belle had any measure of a guess, and apparently so did Mary Margaret, as her shoulders dropped in defeat. Belle was glad; she would not want to have to lecture her charge about her manners any more than she already did. It was, however, at this time, that Belle cleared her throat. "Miss French?" he finally looked at her, hard expression and Belle felt a flush suddenly overtake her.

Belle lowered her eyes, she had no place in this moment to meet his gaze, and certainly felt her voice would be stuck in her throat if she even attempted. "Miss Mary Margaret and I were just about to go for a walk." It was said lamely, and Belle tried not to fidget.

She let her yes drift upward, catching the look on the man's face, a mix of amusement and perhaps annoyance. She felt immediately repentant for displeasing her charge's uncle. "By all means," he stepped fully out of the way, "go right ahead."

When Belle went to move forward, Mary Margaret stayed in her place, surprising the governess enough to lose her footing for a mortifying moment. If Mr. Gold noticed, he made no mention of it. "Uncle?" Belle could see her face now, a smile so sweet it might as well have been made of melted sugar, "perhaps you would like to join us? The park is just across the way."

Belle did not know what game she was after, but she was sure she also did not want to find out. The child was certainly a handful, more than Belle anticipated, and she shifted uneasily behind her, smoothing out the folds in her skirt, trying not to look as anxious as she felt. "I don't think that would be a good idea, Miss White."

The way he spoke, it did not remind her of Bosse or Mrs. White; it was far less clipped, more reminiscent of memories that were in the distant past, north – maybe even farther north than her own stock. "I would very much enjoy it," honey glossed and just slightly pleading. Belle would have to learn all of these things about her, just to ensure she did not fall prey to it.

Mr. Gold did not appear to be falling for it at all, and he shook his head. "Another time, dearie." She sighed and he nodded as though he were appraising a trinket, not a child: "Yes, for the best. You are much too spoiled." She gasped this time, and Belle attempted to hide her smile by turning her head, lifting her hand to hide her mouth. Mr. Gold caught the gesture, and smirked in recognition. For some reason, it made Belle's stomach twist most uncomfortably. "Go on, before you wilt from anticipation."

Mary Margaret sighed, glancing from her governess to her uncle, and swallowed hard. "You must stay until we return," she practically ordered, and Belle grabbed her hand, though not hard, wanting to avoid any consideration of doing harm to his niece, but she did want to make it clear to Mary Margaret that they were going, and were not going to bother Mr. Gold anymore with such silliness.

"We shall see, Miss White," he nodded respectfully to her, and the little girl giggled. He took his leave, breezing past them, despite his pronounced limp, and disappeared into the room where Belle had only met Mary Margaret less than twenty four hours earlier. She did not know that within seventy-two hours, one's life could be altered so dramatically.


	5. The Invitation

**A/N: **Reviews! Thank you so much for finally reviewing, guys! And thank you for the follows and favorites! I really appreciate everything! I hope you're enjoying, and please, continue to respond, if you're so inclined! I love to hear from people! Enjoy!

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As they exited the house, Belle had a thousand questions about the peculiar circumstance she found herself in. General White had passed away six months ago, and this little girl was left without a father. Her mother was, to Belle anyhow, cold, and seemed disinterested, and no one made mention of the person previously in charge of the girl's education, which seemed odd in its own right, unless no one had been seeing to it. That seemed even more unlikely, however, as the girl had basic skills.

And then there was this Uncle Gold: the Northern Purveyor of Indian gifts. It seemed there would be endless mysteries that would present themselves to her, and no answers to be found.

Mary Margaret did not busy her mind with puzzles to be solved or tangled threads to be unraveled though. She walked only a few paces in front of her governess, humming with her parasol over her head, white lace being the only fit for such a girl. Of course, she was proving to be sneakier by the moment. Her interactions with her uncle were tell enough for Belle, who wondered what secret she was keeping and what her reward for doing so was.

When they neared the street, Belle gripped Mary's hand. It seemed like there was a coach every couple of seconds, and perhaps it was Belle's naivety, but she jumped back every single time a carriage showed itself on the street. Mary looked at her, quizzical expression on her soft features, "Is everything alright, Miss French?"

Belle blinked, looking down at the girl. "You do not want to get hit by a carriage, do you?" she asked, as plainly as she could muster. Mary Margaret stared at her for a moment, her eyes scanning over her face, and Belle did not imagine this question was very hard to answer. No one wanted to be run down!

"Come now," Mary giggled softly, looking at her with a baleful expression. "It is just crossing the street. We can do it." Belle felt ashamed, to some degree, that her charge was so much braver than she, but this was all so new. The busy streets were still foreign, the sounds of horses at all hours, and voices carrying from alleys and nearby, voices she didn't recognize – Mary Margaret may have been learning, but Belle was learning too.

So, she set her shoulders and took as deep a breath as she dared – the smell of street was still unfamiliar, and stung her nose. It would be better, she hoped, when they got to the park. "Alright," she nodded, more for herself than Mary Margaret, and she peered down the street. The nearest carriage was all the way down the other end of the street, and Belle shared a look with Mary before both put their boots forward and followed their feet.

It was exhilarating for a moment, and Belle relished in it – something so common thrilled her, but each new experience was one to catalog in a long letter to her friends back at Storybrooke. While the mist and moors kept them company, she would write to them of all the sights and sounds of her new home: and how she crossed a street in front of a sea of carriages (well, maybe not a sea…) and survived!

Her reverie was broken when her boot hit the opposite street's walkway and she tripped forward, uneasy on her feet. Mary Margaret clamped down with a strong grip and Belle yelped before catching her bearings, a bright blush on her cheeks as another passerby on the street looked down at them with a critical eye and disgruntled snort. Belle's cheeks burned a fiery red, but Mary's soft expression quelled her anger. "Are you alright?" Mary Margaret asked softly, running her delicate thumb over the back plane of her hand.

"I think I was a touch overwhelmed by the experience," Belle joked with a soft smile, happy to see Mary Margaret smile and loosen her hold, no worry lines creasing her forehead. Belle leaned down, fixing that bow once more, and then stood erect, "I do hope the park is nothing remarkable," she smiled, "or I might fall entirely!"

Mary giggled softly. "Do you fall often?" her eyes twinkled with playful mischief. Belle did not have the heart to assuage such a thing when they were spending just a short while out in the open air.

"I do my best not to," Belle replied with the same playful expression, "especially if the only person to catch me is far smaller than me," she teased, and Mary laughed. Order was restored, Belle no longer felt foolish, and the wrought iron entry to the park in view.

Mary Margaret breathed a sigh of relief. "Oh good," she breathed, "I do not think I would very good at catching you – or carrying you home." It was said so simply and sweetly that Belle had to cover her mouth to avoid laughing out loud and garnering the attention of everyone in the park. Belle felt like it was her personal mission to keep Mary Margaret's youthful innocence intact for as long as possible.

"I agree," she nodded, and they walked past the gate of the park. Belle immediately felt more at ease, the grass on the edges of the walkways, trees, and flowers. Though, she couldn't help but think it all looked a little… too arranged. Belle liked wild flowers, and overgrown trellises, moss and vines were home, and the lack here, well, as much as there was beauty in a prim, English garden, it was somewhat cold. And Belle couldn't even name some of the flowers. "Before I arrived, did you go to the park often?"

Mary stumbled, apparently ripped out of thought, and pursed her lips, shaking her head. "No," she sighed, twirling her parasol above her head. Belle reached out and touched it, stilling it, and Mary sighed. "Miss Pross did not enjoy walking in the park – she was very old," she looked at Belle over her shoulder with a grimace, "and could not walk well. Even Uncle said so."

It was not as though Belle wanted to ask about this mysterious uncle, but she could not help but be even more curious, now that Mary Margaret brought him up again. The man did not appear all that frightening, but Bosse seemed aptly spooked, and his stare was unsettling, but that wasn't the point! Belle shook her head and clasped her hands behind her back, "Does your uncle visit often?"

Again, Mary Margaret sighed – apparently so full of sighs for such a young thing, "No. Uncle Gold travels much of the time. He brings me treasures from all over the world though; I have a tea set from China, silk slippers from Persia, and even coins from the Ottoman Empire!" She sounded so excited; these treasures had not been introduced to Belle, probably tucked away in some secret alcove, just for the little girl.

"And what of India?" Belle asked, almost excited to find out what treasure would be added to the girl's extensive collection, hoping she might be granted the privilege of seeing some of these exotic things. She had never even crossed a street before today, let alone saw something from thousands upon thousands of miles away, except maybe in a book.

This was where Mary let out the loudest sigh of all, a full body wracking thing, and Belle blinked at her. "It is a dreadful secret!"

"Sometimes, the mystery surrounding a thing is better than the thing itself," Belle offered with a smile, hoping it would sate the impatient little girl, and relieve some of the nervous energy surrounding whatever it was she was to be given.

Unfortunately, Mary Margaret had other plans. "Not with Uncle Gold," she said with enough conviction Belle might have believed it without question. She turned her head and stared straight ahead, leaving Belle to wonder what expression she wore when she let out a deep breath, "Everything he brings is magnificent."

The conversation, at least that one, ended there. Belle did not push further, but it did invoke some of her own imagination – trying to imagine what deliciously exotic gift was going to come into the house. She could understand Mary Margaret's impatience now, particularly because she had only known about such a present for less than an hour and couldn't conjure and idea of what it was – let alone any longer than that!

They busied themselves though, turning about the maintained paths, around the manmade ponds, and the well manicured bushes. They sat in the grass for a short time, talked of stories and flowers, things that would pass the time, but both were distracted. Belle assumed both of their minds were in the same place, and she realized, as Mary began to slow in her step, it was time to head back to the house.

Hand in hand, they walked down the same paths, tracing their steps back toward the street, which was considerably less busy than it had been earlier in the day. This time, Belle only hesitated for two carriages, Mary Margaret urging her across with a sweet smile, embracing her with excitement as they got to the other side. The young woman rushed up the stairs to the entrance, Belle trailing behind, Bosse ready with the door.

"Is Mother in?" Mary asked happily, rosy cheeked and refreshed.

"Not yet, Miss," he answered in an even tone that Belle was starting to think was the only way he could speak. Of course, Mary Margaret's expression changed to a hope that Belle had never seen and she ran inside, practically sweeping the butler with her in her skirts that flew out around her legs.

Belle reached the top of the stairs and shook her head, "I'm sorry, Bosse," she smiled apologetically as he fixed his cuffs, following the whorl of white lace and pink ribbons with his dark eyes. "She's spirited."

"I am well aware, Miss French," he seemed amused, and Belle turned her eyes downward, feeling the slightest bit of embarrassment, realizing Bosse would clearly know that from far more experience with Mary Margaret than Belle could dream of at this point. "I imagine," he added, "she is in the parlor."

"Thank you, Bosse," she smiled warmly, passing by as he gently shut the door with a click. Belle wondered if Mrs. White would be around very much, since she was so absent on Belle's first day, and if Mr. Gold was waiting in the parlor. Belle stopped in the doorway: Mary Margaret had climbed onto one of the chairs and had a piece of paper in her dainty hands. Mr. Gold was nowhere to be seen. "Mary?" she asked softly, hoping the girl wasn't upset.

She tore her eyes from the piece of paper and smiled, "Yes, Miss French?"

That was a good sign to Belle; Mary Margaret did not look upset. "What do you have there?" she started to walk into the parlor, but her charge quickly folded the paper back, clutching it in her hands as she approached, smiling as innocently as she could imagine. Belle, however, was not impressed. "Well?"

"Just a note from Uncle," she smiled and clutched it tighter than before. There as a glimmer in her eyes though, and Belle was not satisfied with that answer.

"Is there anything about your gift?" she pressed, leaning to look at her, figuring out what exactly she was playing at and what on Earth could be in that note that would make her smile so wide. It was good to know she had something to ask about, rather than leaving it up to Mary Margaret to tell her.

The girl stood at the foot of Belle's skirt, looking straight up at her. "We are having tea with Uncle Gold tomorrow." With that, Mary Margaret lifted her chin and started past Belle, tugging at the bow at her neck before she raced up the stairs. Belle had no choice but to follow, and blinked herself out of the shock of the declaration: tea with Uncle Gold.


	6. The Cup

**A/N: **Alright, this is finally here! I know it took a really long time, but tea time is finally here, and I think it is worth the wait! So please, enjoy! I hope you think it was worth the wait too!

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Tea time was fast approaching. She refused to let Belle read the note, something about private correspondence that Belle was certain she learned from someone _not_ in charge of her teaching and education, but that point was neither here nor there. Three o'clock was tea time, and it was nearly two.

Mary Margaret was almost completely incorrigible, insisting that they sit by the window and getting distracted every couple of seconds to stare out and see if her Uncle was arriving. Of course, she had something new to tell her every time, and when they were doing her spelling and the word bauble came up, Mary darted from her chair to her vanity and rummaged through a drawer before withdrawing a gleaming, red box.

When she brought it over, Belle was astonished to see it was wood – shining, but blood red, and exotic fish with flowing tails and big eyes carved into the top. Belle's index finger traced over the delicate carving and Mary Margaret smiled. "Uncle said those were koi fish," she explained, "they live in Asia, and they come in gold and white. When I asked for one, he said it wouldn't live long enough to make it here."

She pouted and Belle giggled. "Well, it is for the best. You aren't quite suited to a fish, I think," she added as she drew her finger along the pattern of the tail, like a fan, in a hypnotic little circle.

"I know," she smiled. "I asked Mother for a puppy instead." She looked put out and shook her head. Belle looked at her sympathetically, not needing her to go on to know the outcome of such a request. She flipped open the box and gasped. The simple, jade pendent on a silver chain sitting in the velvet lined box. Belle looked up at Mary Margaret, and she smiled hopefully. "Can you help me put it on?"

She nodded, gingerly lifting the delicate chain out of the box and undoing the clasp with nimble, quick fingers. "Turn around," she instructed softly, and Mary Margaret did so, Belle lifting it over her head and resting the pendent on the bib of her dress, making careful work of clasping it and not tugging at the delicate chain. "There you are, dear," she pat her back softly, and Mary Margaret swirled around, chest puffed up with pride to show the green stone off. "Lovely," Belle complimented.

Mary Margaret blushed and giggled. "Thank you," she suddenly playing at being shy before she rushed to the window. She pressed her hands and nose against the glass panes, breath fogging up the space that she occupied within a few breaths, so she'd duck and get on her tip-toes, dark eyes searching for what Belle could assume was her Uncle. Instruction was woefully beyond her today.

It was only excusable, Belle reasoned, because she saw her Uncle so few times throughout the year, from what she had gathered. "I'll be right back," Belle informed her preoccupied student, who did not even peel her eyes from the window as Belle touched her head and moved from the nursery into the hall.

She jaunted down the stairs, skirt in hand, and down the hall toward the kitchen. She wanted to find Eliza. Fortunately, her lilting voice carried and Belle tapered off to the side, peeking into the formal dining room where Eliza was dusting. "Pardon me, Miss Lucas?" she waited for Eliza to look up before she smiled, "Just a moment, if you could…"

"Of course, Miss!" Eliza cut off with a swift wave of her hand, dropping the duster to her side and practically bouncing around the long, gleaming wood table. Belle couldn't believe the luxury of the room, and imagined at Christmas it must have been so beautiful in here… It would be nearly three full seasons before she got to see it, but Belle had high hopes.

Standing in front of her, dipping her head respectfully, Eliza looked expectant. "Yes, Miss French?"

"I was just wondering," she tried to be as apologetic and accommodating as possible, "if you could make sure there are sandwiches at tea, for Mary Margaret. If that's possible," she twisted her skirt in her hands, hoping it wasn't going to be too much to ask, but it was one of the first things Mary had said to her, and she wanted to make sure it was perfect for her. Belle would do everything in her power to make her experiences good.

Eliza gasped and nodded enthusiastically, "Of course!" she squeaked, "I'll ask Gran straight away."

"If there's anything our guest also prefers, I'd ask for that as well," Belle smiled. Of course, Eliza's reaction, the cocked head and slackened jaw, with eyebrows pulling into the center of her face. Eliza's own confusion reinventing itself on Belle's face, "Unless that's too much, of course."

That seemed to snap Eliza out of her thoughts and she chuckled, her eyes shifting. Belle wondered if she was nervous. "Oh Miss French," she leaned in, lowering her chin and lowering her voice to a whisper, "I don't even know if Mr. Gold eats, I've never seen it myself."

"He must," Belle giggled softly, "everyone does. Mary Margaret said he travels much of the time, perhaps he is just not around enough." Belle did not know why she had the impulse to defend him, but she assumed it was the understanding that everyone deserved to be thought well of until they proved otherwise, and so far, Mary Margaret had nothing negative to say, and he had been perfectly polite, if not clipped.

"Not him," she shook her head vigorously, "Grum says once, he saw him leaving and the man just – disappeared! Like an apparition," she seemed so convinced, wide-eyed with her trembling voice.

Belle wrinkled her nose, unsure if she actually believed such a thing. She did not know Grum, but… she had overheard Bosse chastising him for drinking early in the morning, so Belle shook her head. "Sometimes," Belle smiled, "I think people let their imaginations get away from them."

That did not seem to satisfy the dark haired maid. Eliza shook her head though and wrinkled her nose. "Mr. Gold," she lowered her voice even more, practically hissing the words to avoid being heard, though Belle had no idea why they were whispering, they were the only one's in the room, "is a powerful man, Miss French. Please, be careful."

That was so peculiar; Belle couldn't do anything but blink and nod. "Of course," she answered lamely. Whatever Eliza meant, Belle could not decipher, but she supposed she'd get to know more this afternoon. Nothing else, so far, had revealed any answers, except for his generosity toward Mary Margaret, and his world travels. "Thank you, Miss Lucas, for your help."

"My pleasure, Miss," she dipped down again, replacing her anxious face with a beaming one, which set Belle at ease, to some degree. It was still perplexing, and she exited the lavish dining room to enter the hall, Eliza following and heading down the other direction with quick, light steps. They echoed in the empty hallway though, and Belle let out a deep breath, wondering just what Eliza meant, and why she seemed so… insistent about Mr. Gold.

A ghost, Belle could have laughed. Stories like that were reserved for late nights with thunder rumbling and lightening streaking across the sky, not practical, real world living. But, it was still disconcerting. Her shoulders drooped as she mounted the stairs, heels clicking against each as she padded upward, glad that she did not have Mary Margaret to rush after – it was quite the chore, climbing up all three flights. "Mary," she called out at the top of the third flight, "Come into the parlor, we'll work on your pianoforte."

Mary tore out of the room, though slowed as Belle looked at her, and smiled. "Can't we please just wait?" she pouted, clasping her hands in front of her, eyes round and full, lip just slightly puffed out. Belle had seen this expression many times, and for Mary Margaret to think it would work, well, Belle may have been afraid to cross a street, but her experience with little girls was far more comprehensive.

"Not at all," she smiled, "what do we say about idle hands, dear?" Belle looked at her, wondering how her Christian education was formed, and if she would need to increase the amount of time they spent in scripture.

"They're the Devil's playthings," Mary Margaret sighed, looking rightfully embarrassed by her request. If she were a little older, she might have suggested they just do needlework for the time being, but her fingers were still clumsy, and although the practice was good for her, she would likely prick herself and tears would do the afternoon no favors, so down to the instruments they would go.

Belle smiled, leaning down to stroke her cheek with affection before wrinkling her nose. "Exactly, come now," she offered her hand, and Mary Margaret took it, albeit reluctantly. It was nice, to know that no matter how much she did not want to do something, she would at least agree to attempt it. They mounted the stairs together, and for the first time, Mary Margaret did not race ahead, but stayed perfectly at her side. "How far are you on your pianoforte, Mary Margaret?" she inquired after the distracted little girl.

Mary bit the inside of her cheek, hollowing the usually round surface, and seemed lost in thought for a moment. That look was indicative of one of two things: Mary Margaret anticipated telling a falsehood, or she was looking for the most delicate way to put the truth. Either way, it meant Belle anticipated starting from the very beginning. "I had only just started, before you came."

That was, at least, honest. Belle could work with honest. So she smiled, reassuring Mary Margaret that they would work together on it, and brought her into the parlor where Eliza and Gran were fussing, clearly not in the way of overlooking a detail just because of the guest. They would, most likely leave, without a word while Belle and Mary Margaret were at the piano.

Belle and Mary Margaret paid them no mind, beyond a greeting, leaving them to their work as they were left to theirs, and sat by the piano. The books were on the shelf, but Belle did not turn to them first. She bustled around Mary Margaret, fixing her posture and her hands, pushing the bench in and explaining how the keys worked. She allowed Mary to press them, not focusing on making music so much as getting used to the sound keys made and the pressure required. Belle would have to practice on the instrument herself, she realized, to get to know it.

Every instrument, after all, had its own life, its own sound. When Mary pressed the keys, this one seemed to groan and ache, depressed from disuse. Mary had considerably less experience than she told Belle about, and thankfully, the girl would not be going to any parties where she might need to show off her skills anytime soon, or Belle would be put out of her position faster than she had attained it. The delicate traipsing about, however, was interrupted when Mary's hands stopped moving and she glanced upward. "Miss French, would you mind terribly to play a little bit?" she asked with a tentative smile, "please?"

Belle examined her face, trying to decipher the intent behind the request: was she really interested in hearing her governess or did she want to distractedly stare out of the window? It was hard, when a face was so innocent, you could not ascribe motive out of it by expression alone, but Belle sighed, unwilling to deny her charge the request. "Something short," she acquiesced, "and only so you can take note of my posture and positioning."

Mary Margaret practically leapt off of the bench with glee and clasped her hands under her chin. "I will pay every attention!" she squealed as Belle arranged herself at the keyboard. It was a fine instrument, she lightly ran her fingers over the keys, sighing at the smoothness and pressed, just lightly, to test the tension. Looking into her memory, she pulled out a light air, and started to play, teasing the keys to produce a happy sound, erasing some of the creaking inner mechanisms and releasing the integrity of such a finely built piece. Belle closed her eyes, letting out a deep sigh, trying not to relax her shoulders too much – she wished to set a good example for Mary Margaret, and once she got the feel for the instrument, she let out a deep breath and started to play.

Music had always been something Belle enjoyed, outside of her books, and some sketching, it was her pastime of choice. She smiled to herself as she played, hearing some of the sadness seep out of the wood and change the very corner, blossoming with light, happy music. When Belle finished, her deft fingers striking the final chord, she immediately heard the frantic clapping of Mary Margaret to her left and then a farther off, much slower and deliberate clapping from behind.

"You've a talented teacher, Miss Mary Margaret," the voice she only heard once before, the previous day drawls out as an uneven gait accompanies the sound. Belle shot up from the bench, practically tripping over the thing while Mary Margaret darted forward, squealing most indecorously before halting and at least attempting to curtsey a greeting. Thankfully, that seemed to do well enough and Mr. Gold just barely smiled. "Did I interrupt?"

"Oh no, Uncle," Mary Margaret rushed to answer, smiling all the while, "Miss French was starting my piano lessons and I asked her – very nicely – if she would play for me. You are right, you know, she is very talented."

Belle felt a flush deeper than any she had ever felt blooming on her cheeks and she shook her head, "Thank you, Miss Mary Margaret," best to be polite in these situations, "and I apologize, Mr. Gold," she looked down, avoiding his gaze while she crossed the room, "for delaying your greeting upon arrival."

He waved his hand, dismissive to her apology and moved without invitation to place himself at one of the plus chairs. He had a parcel with him, presumably Mary Margaret's present, and she watched the young girl's dark eyes train on it as soon as she saw it. He kept it in his lap though and folded his hands over it, after leaning his cane against the side of the chair. Mary Margaret took the chair closest to him. "Uncle," she said very seriously, trying her best to sit like a lady, though she appeared to be in a very big conflict with herself to not lean over. "Why did you leave before we returned yesterday?"

Belle shot her a look as she crossed the room, trying to be as discreet as possible. Eliza was carrying the tray with the tea pot and cups n it, and Belle met her at the entry, taking it with a quiet thanks, leaving Eliza looking so relieved she might have fainted. Belle turned, slowly, to not trip and carried it to the table, catching the tail end of Mr. Gold's answer to Mary Margaret: "… busy man, my dear."

Mary Margaret answered, as Belle busied her hands with pouring. She was the adult woman in the room, after all, and it gave her something to do. It was a slow process, or at least she forced herself to go about it slowly. "I was quite put out," Mary Margaret was very forward, "but I was happy to receive your note." A giggle escaped her and Belle looked up long enough to see her hands covering her mouth, as though she was not supposed to say something. Belle frowned. "How was your morning, Uncle?" That was much better.

Gold shifted in his seat, Belle could hear the rustle of his pants against velvet upholstery and she saw his shoes shift out of the corner of her eye. "I'm sure that doesn't interest you, dearie," Belle could practically hear the amusement in his voice, "Very boring, ghastly things."

"Ghastly?" Mary Margaret echoed, now most assuredly leaning over the arm of her chair, Belle carrying their two cups on the tray forward, Mary Margaret's already fully assembled: with three sugars, and a dash of cream, while his was untouched. Belle noted, that when he picked up his cup he did not even ask for sugar. Interesting. She poured her own cup, preparing it somewhere between the two extremes and sat next to Mary Margaret, who was greedily reaching for her second finger sandwich.

While Mary Margaret nibbled on the corner of her sandwich, Mr. Gold chuckled, a deep sound that made Belle's eyes turn to the inside of her teacup. "Yes, terrible things," he smirked, Mary Margaret stopped nibbling. "Things much too unseemly for a young lady such as yourself."

She flushed and puffed up her cheeks. "It is unbecoming to withhold the truth, Uncle."

Belle, of course, looked up from her teacup – indignation completely written on Mary Margaret's features, and only good humor on his. She amused him, but she certainly didn't amuse Belle. "Mary Margaret," she intoned softly, "perhaps there's a better way to voice your displeasure." Correcting a child required a soft, guiding hand, and Belle was glad to see that her words seemed to resonate with the child.

They incited their guest into speaking first, however, before Mary Margaret had a chance. "I see Storybrooke's education has not slackened on its emphasis of decorum," he smirked, leaning back in his chair and glanced over at Mary Margaret, "you will be learning to communicate exactly what you wish to say while saying nothing at all in record time, Miss White." Belle's embarrassment was only matched by confusion: how had he known where she went to school?

Both of the women were quiet. Belle's silence was embarrassment, Mary Margaret's confusion. "Why would I want to do that?" Mary Margaret finally asked, so concentrated on unearthing the puzzle herself Belle was afraid the girl might prematurely wrinkle.

"Because, my dear, that is what all well bred young ladies do." There was a hint of something in his voice that Belle could not place, maybe resentment, or a long lasting bitterness. It was obviously not something he wished to speak on, and Mary Margaret, looking no less confused, but definitely sated, let a deep breath out of her nose, playing at taking a sip of her very sweet tea.

She delicately placed the saucer and cup on the edge of the table, but her placement was not so steady, the cup teetering, her little hands to slow to stop it and the porcelain, almost as though time had slowed, tumbled from the surface and onto the ground – it's delicate clink sending vibrations through the air that shattered the tension of the previous moment, tea soaking into the carpet that ultimately saved the cup from being completely shattered.

Instantly, without thought, Belle put her own cup down and dropped to the ground, so concentrated on the glass, she did not even look at Mary Margaret as she began to spout apologies, her voice quaking with embarrassment and regret. "Don't fret," Belle soothed, reaching out for the chipped cup with the delicate blue flower on the side, "it's just a cup."

She reached out to grab it and realized, with a hitched breath, that her hand did not hit porcelain, but brushed against another warm hand. Belle immediately knew it was not her charge, and she lifted her eyes, still unable to breathe, meeting the eyes of their guest, practically kneeling on the ground, despite his leg, to pick it up. She did not know what to say, and even when she went to speak, all she could do was produce a little sound, signaling that she had, indeed, begun breathing again. "Pardon," he said softly, and retracted his hand immediately. Belle's hand still hovered over the glass.

She thought he might have been embarrassed, but the same hand produced a handkerchief. One corner was carefully embroidered with his monogram: A.U.G. She wondered, briefly, who had done it for him, and then realized how strangely inappropriate that thought was. Belle's resolve to stare at the cup intensified, even as he used the swath of fabric to soak up spilt tea.

"My apologies," she suddenly realized how long she had been staring at him, and how deathly still the room felt. Mary Margaret's feet even stopped kicking, she could see out of the corner of her eye. Belle tried not to look as though she had been frozen and hastily scooped up the cup and its flaked off edges, clearing her throat. "Pardon me," she pushed herself up, cradling the broken thing before she placed it on the tray, busying herself. "I'll be just a moment."

She did not know the etiquette for helping a man up off the floor, and she might have, if she did not worry about mortifying his pride and ruining her own by doing so. No, it was best to walk away, and she lifted the tray, looking at the young girl who was on the verge of tears as she watched her Uncle awkwardly push himself up from his kneeling spot. "Do not fret, Mary Margaret," she said softly, and nodded to the little girl, only vaguely hearing the same reassurance from Mr. Gold as her heart thrummed in her chest and blood rushed through her ears.

The entry way to the parlor seemed like a world away as her heels clicked against the floor and she let out a deep breath upon exit. She steadied herself against the wall, out of view for a moment, leaning her head back. How absolutely mortifying.

It was only a small relief when she heard Mary Margaret burst into a fit of giggles, though she could not hear what prompted it.


	7. The Gifts

**A/N: **Obligatory pre-finals posting! I really like this section, and hope you guys like it too! Please, enjoy, and good luck to anyone else who is doing finals/enduring the end of the year!

* * *

The first thing Eliza asked was if she needed to get Grum to ask Mr. Gold to leave, and Belle continued to stare in shock before she could explain just how the cup had broken and that Eliza could just take care of it. She might have been short with her, but really? To think their guest was throwing glasses or something of the sort… Belle shook her head, remembering how he had bent down to help, even though it was most assuredly not his responsibility to do so.

She left Eliza to return to the parlor, her pace much quicker than before, crossing through the corridor and returning. Both heads turned as he entered, causing Belle to lower her head, once again, "Miss Lucas is going to replace the cup, Mary Margaret," she informed her charge softly, a blush returning to the little girl's cheeks.

It was to her credit though that she did not simper over her mistake. Belle stepped over the handkerchief that was still on the ground and resumed her seat. "Uncle Gold," Mary Margaret explained, looking at Belle, "was just telling me about the women in India." Belle raised her eyebrows.

Mr. Gold was relaxed, certainly, and didn't seem to mind the girl's enthusiasm as he pushed himself to sit up straighter in the chair. "Yes," he started carefully, "they wear silks in every color you could imagine…"

"Even pink?" Mary Margaret interrupted excitedly.

Belle looked at her, but she could not tear her eyes from her Uncle. "Oh yes," his voice trilled, sending Mary Margaret into a squeal that she could only just barely repress. "Bright shades – nothing like the insipid English rose pinks – they wear the pink of hot house flowers you adore so much," a detail Belle did not know before that. "And I dare say, I think it was a land made for me."

Mary Margaret frowned, and for some strange reason, Belle found herself frowning as well. "Why is that?" Mary asked, tentative, critically examining his face, to decipher if it was a jest or not. The girl did not look convinced.

"All of the gold, of course," he grinned and Mary Margaret giggled, shaking her head. "Everything is made of gold. Even the rings that hang from their noses," he smirked, "giant hoops – like gypsies."

The shock on Mary's face was clear as a line of prose, and Belle couldn't help but lean forward with interest now. She tried her best to look disinterested, but really? Both sets of delicate, large doe eyes trained on him. "Yes, and bracelets, up their bare arms – don't look so scandalized Miss French, this is the East," Belle blushed even deeper, "and gold decorations in their hair. The married women, they have red dots on their foreheads," he reached over and poked Mary Margaret in the middle of her forehead.

She made a face. "Dots? That seems silly!" she declared. It did not seem polite, but well, Belle couldn't help having the same thought.

"To show they're married, like the pretty bands you ladies expect," he added in response to her query. For some reason, the way he said it unsettled Belle deeply. She did not say anything though, and he continued. "And they use a dye, called henna, to paint their skin. It sits, on the surface, in intricate patterns, and when it peels off, it is like a tea stain on your skin."

"Really?" Belle didn't realize she had spoken until the words were tumbling from her lips, and Mary Margaret looked shaken. Mr. Gold, on the other hand, appeared pleased.

He nodded, "Yes, Miss French. Intricate designs, Buddhist symbols and relics from ancients," he turned his eyes to Mary Margaret who seemed enraptured by the whole thing, "The designs snake up their arms," his voice even seemed to slither, "and over their feet and up their ankles," to which Belle cleared her throat – she might have been interested – but there was a line. He met her gaze knowingly. Belle was not sure how she felt about that.

The little girl heaved a sigh full of romantic dreams of the east. Belle could practically smell the spices in the air. She wondered if it just her imagination. "Are they permanent?" Mary Margaret asked, drawing little lines over the back of her own hand, probably imagining such a thing.

"Not at all," he answered easily. "One day they're there, and the next," he waved his hand dismissively, "They're gone."

This was enough to excited Mary Margaret beyond herself and she brightened, "I should like one!" she breathed, dreaminess in her breathy voice.

"I do not think so," Mr. Gold stole the words straight from Belle and she smiled, just a little. The girl pouted and he shook his head. "Pout and," he reached over and touched the parcel on the table, Belle realized he must have moved it when he bent to help her, "you won't get this."

Mary gasped and righted her face, sitting down properly and folding her hands. How one tiny threat could shift the tables, Belle had never experienced the power of presents at Storybrooke. "Oh Uncle!" she sighed. Belle noticed the way her little tongue poked out of the corner of her mouth, staring at the box, as though she could will it onto her lap.

It might have worked, because Gold was handing over the box and it looked like every ounce of tension Mary Margaret's body possessed was holding her back from grabbing the thing and tearing it to shreds. Belle watched expectantly, and when the parcel was finally in her lap, Mary did not immediately rush to rip it to pieces. Maybe there was a grain of truth in the mystery being better: Mary seemed reluctant almost, like her dream was too good for reality. "Go ahead, dearie," he urged, and Mary Margaret was shaken enough that her hands began to move.

They shook with anticipation and Belle watched, quietly, wondering just what was in the box. The twine came first, carefully placed on the table, and then she carefully peeled the paper back. The anticipation was almost excruciating, but Mr. Gold looked cool and removed. Belle was aching to know. Mary Margaret finally pulled back the flap and gasped, dinner plate sized eyes widening even further. "Uncle!" she breathed, "how beautiful! Thank you!"

She wasn't lifting whatever it was from the box and Belle felt stifled, wanting to see what it was so desperately. She was this girl's teacher, yes, but she was also young and curious. She craned her neck just a little bit, and Mary seemed to catch it, pulling what appeared to be a white elephant out of the box. It was carved, trunk craned to the sky, trumpeting. Belle had never seen anything like it, stark white and deep engraving in its back, flowers and patterns, an elaborate base carved in the same method. Even the wrinkles around the creature's eyes, in its ears, and on its neck were etched out. It was a piece of art, and both Belle and Mary Margaret were entranced.

"It's ivory," he explained, "carved from the tusk of a real elephant." Both girls were shocked, and Mary ran her fingers over it, reverent for its beauty and rarity. It seemed Mary Margaret had forgotten all about the box as she traced the saddle-like back covering on the figure. "Is that all?" Gold asked, amusement very clearly laced in his voice. Belle tried not to bite too hard on the inside of her lip.

Mary – far more carefully now that the teacup had broken, placed the elephant on the side table, and dug into the box, moving some fabric, presumably used to wrap the elephant and protect it from colliding with the floor and gasped. "Oh Uncle," she breathed, finally lifting the next treasure out from the box. It was a finely crafted bracelet, thin golden strings, woven together with gems like Belle had never seen.

"Put it on," he urged, as Mary turned it over in her hands. It looked too big for her, much too big, and she slipped it over her hand easily, it dangled far off her wrist. She held it up though, and smiled. "A bit big," he appraised, "but in a few years," he addressed her drooping face, "it will be perfect."

Mary Margaret slid off of her chair, trying to arrange her skirts as modestly as she could while she did, and slid the bracelet down, off of her thin wrist. She placed it next to the elephant. "Thank you so much, Uncle!" she breathed, and rushed forward, ready to throw her arms around him, but she was staved off - a pat to the head, and nothing more. Belle tried not to betray her curiosity, but even she felt her eyes were trained for moments too long.

"I'm going to put these treasures away," Mary Margaret finally declared, taking the two presents so delicately in her hands, she treated them as though they were newborn babes, or glass. She darted away, leaving the box on the ground and Belle, unaccompanied in the presence of Mr. Gold.

Her understanding of that situation made her even more aware of the fact that he shifted in his seat, his eyes following the whirl of skirt and petticoat that was Mary Margaret, and for a moment, Belle wished she had registered what the girl was doing earlier so she might have gotten up to follow. It would be strange now, however, and Belle brought her teacup to her lips – even though the water was tepid and she practically grimaced at the taste. Years of practice dulled her dissatisfaction to a twitch. "You have quite the job, Miss French," he remarked, striking Belle as completely inappropriate to even speak when there was no one else present, but it was also rude to not answer.

The conflict of interest here, she supposed, was intentional. He seemed to devalue the rules of etiquette, sitting and waiting when not invited, discussing exotic customs, and then speaking to a young woman without a chaperone. Now, granted, Belle did not occupy the place of a lady in the house, but she wasn't a servant either. So, she had to respect that he was a gentleman and she answered to anyone above her, no matter how uncomfortable. "Mary Margaret is a pleasant student," she eased, "I don't find her to be a trouble in any way."

"It's not Miss White that is the challenge." His tone was amused, but Belle saw nothing to be amused about.

She put her cup down, running her hands over her skirt, trying her best to remain impartial and disinterested as possible before she lifted her chin, just enough to still be respectful, but let him know she was not to be toyed with. Belle had heard stories – the men of houses getting a bit too fond of their governesses, but he did not live here and it appeared he was only fond of Mary Margaret. "Would you care to tell me what challenges I will face then?" she asked, an edge to her voice she did not realize she had until she started to speak. That was mortifying.

Belle took a breath through her nose, but she did not apologize. He certainly overstepped his boundaries, and Belle had never encountered a man who did that before. It frustrated her. "Ah, what is the fun in that, dearie?" he chuckled – and her hypersensitivity to his movement keyed in. He shifted again, wrapping his elegant fingers around the arm of the chair.

"It is only a matter of chance if a position is fun," Belle quipped. She was irritated, admittedly, and would have liked a straight answer instead of any of this toying. Storybrooke had not been a place where people toyed with one another; she was not prepared for it. "I find it much easier to operate in certainty, rather than chance or speculation."

He raised his eyebrows at her. Belle did not know whether he was upset or amused, but either way, she was glad to have made her point. She wasn't some flippant thing, no matter how skilled she was at playing with sentences. "Likewise, Miss French," his words did not match his smirk and the tilt of his head as he looked at her. She did not enjoy it. "You might fare well, yet."

She turned her chin angling her head enough to look at him, though her body was pointed toward the door, she had not intention of keeping any form of this conversation going in a manner that might displease her. "I have so far, and first impressions, they say, are everything."

It was no small pleasure to Belle that Mary Margaret's timing was utterly perfect. She had certainly gotten the last word as the dark haired little beauty reentered, looking pleased as punch. "Hidden," a secret smile played at her lips as she bounced in, back toward her seat, breaking the direct line between Mr. Gold and Belle. It was more than Belle could have asked for.

"Very good," Mr. Gold said, tight lipped, and Belle did not hide her own smile. Mary Margaret did not even pay them mind, lost in the world that children so often did: the one where as soon as they left the room, that room invariably ceased to exist until they returned to it.

There was a tense moment of silence before Mr. Gold's hand disappeared behind his lapel and he pulled a gold watch out, attached to a long watch chain. It was a beautiful thing, Belle could tell even from where she sat. And he clicked it open with deft fingers before shutting it all the same. "What is it, Uncle?" Mary Margaret asked, seeming to understand the gesture.

"I'm afraid," his hand reached for the handle of his cane and he gripped it, pushing himself up and steady, "it is time for me to be going."

Mary Margaret's face fell and she stood up as he did, Belle following suit without a second thought. It was only polite. "Must you, Uncle?" she asked, pained. Belle found that hearing Mary Margaret distressed automatically made her distressed, and she looked at Mr. Gold with curiosity, to see if Mary's disappointment registered with him.

His shoulders shook with a silent chuckle, apparently the little girl's expression was an amusement, which made Belle's stomach bubble with a sort of unintentional anger, before he softened, and in turn, so did she. "I'm afraid so, dearie." He leaned down just a little, dropping his voice to a whisper, "deals to make."

"Deals?" Mary Margaret echoed in a whisper that was not so much conspiratorial as it was reverent. "Are you going away again?" this question, more so than the last, left both of them holding their breath, though Belle did not know why.

When he smiled, Belle was sure if she had been breathing, she might have stopped. It was an arresting thing, a full smile, done so infrequently, except by children, that she swallowed, wholly unprepared. "Not that I know of, my dear. Business keeps me in London for a season, at least."

Mary's face lit up, and Belle remembered to breathe again, trying not to draw attention to herself. She had never found herself so fascinated by a person, but then again, she had never met someone who had travelled the world and made someone like Eliza quiver with fear. Belle did not find him scary; uncouth, absolutely, but not scary. "You must visit often!" Demanding of Mary Margaret, Belle noted to correct that.

But Mr. Gold seemed unfazed by the question. He tugged on his black gloves – Belle had never even noticed he took them off, though she realized that had probably occurred before he walked in on her playing. "I shall do my best, Miss White," he bowed his head to her, and she curtseyed in return, grinning from ear to ear: satisfied with her answer.

When Mr. Gold turned his eyes on Belle, she attempted to move her eyes away, but it was impossible. He caught her in his gaze, and bowed his head to her as well. "Miss French," her named rolled off his tongue, sounding so familiar and close to home that Belle nearly felt a stab of homesickness she hadn't felt since she was eleven years old.

Her own thoughts made her hesitate, and the moment that hung in the air was only punctuated by the querying expression on his face before she finally dipped into a stumbling, awkward curtsey. "Goodbye, Mr. Gold."

"Until next time," she could not tell whether or not his eyebrows actually lifted, but Belle thought she saw something in his face, and he looked once again to Mary Margaret before he started toward the door, turning surprisingly gracefully and walked stiffly, but surely out of the parlor. Both Belle and Mary Margaret stood still until they heard Bosse's voice, and then Gold's, and the door.

It was Mary Margaret who was first to speak, Belle's eyes still glued on the doorway. "Miss French?" she questioned, drawing Belle into reality, and her blue eyes floated right to the little girl's questioning face. "Might we go upstairs and read?"

If Belle did not know better, she might have thought the instrument actually made a joyful sound of its own volition, but no, she was imagining things. Of course she was. "Yes, yes," she shook her head and moved to guide Mary Margaret back to the stairs, "Let's."

The little girl mounted the stairs, and while she usually ran, this time, her sedate walk told Belle she would not be doing very much reading at all. Her mind was as preoccupied as Belle's was, wondering about challenges, deals, and whether or not she truly believed what she said about first impressions.


End file.
